Dancing on Our Graves
by Spacer Paste
Summary: An adventure horror story set in Skyrim. A mysterious mage sets her sights on the Companions. Is she Silverhand or an entirely new threat to the Circle? Against his better judgment, Vilkas must accept the assistance of the Dhovakiin to locate his brother. He doesn't trust her or the halfbreed elf at her side. But he would do anything to save his brother and damn the consequences.
1. Dancing on Our Graves 1

Dancing on Our Graves  
Chapter 1

NOTE: The story idea and OCs belong to Vertigox2Vertigo. I co-authored this story, and she granted me permission to use them as I see fit, but they are hers.

* * *

"What is better - To be born good, or overcome your evil nature through great effort?" —Paarthurnax

* * *

The steady drip of water from the rimed stone above his head mixed with the bloody wound above his right eye and ran through his matted hair and into his eyes and mouth. The floor beneath his, torn feet was damp and cold, and a chill lingered in the putrid air that hovered around him. He wasn't sure of his exact location, but he knew he was far from home. He couldn't be sure how long they had been down in this cave, but if his empty stomach was any indication, he'd say a week. Maybe more.

Someone moaned to his left, the familiar sound tearing at his gut and roused him abruptly with a gasp of fetid air. He knew the voice, knew the reason why she was in agony, and yet there was nothing he could do about. Farkas heard Aela shift in her chains and her groan as her leg gave out. He heard her drop limply to one knee, her arms stretched above her head by the manacles around her wrists, while she wheezed in pain. Farkas lifted his aching, battered head up to peer out of the one good eye and looked over at his shield sister.

He wanted to call out to her, to tell her that he was still with her and that she needed to hold out a little longer, but he could not. His throat was so raw from screaming that he couldn't make a sound. Farkas shook his head and spit a clot of blood onto the slippery floor. Vilkas would come soon. His brother would hunt the bastards that had done this, and he would find them. Save them. They just needed to stay alive.

Gods, if he could just loosen his own bonds, then he could transform and free them both from this wretched place. But he could not. Between the broken arm and blood loss of a deep cut, he was too weak to pull at the chains or the bolts driven into the walls.

Farkas despised admitting it, but he had to face the fact that he couldn't help either of them.

Damn them all to Oblivion.

He forced himself to stillness and gazed around the room. The air smelled of old blood, rotting flesh, and fear. Beyond the cold fireplace, a row of mounted wolf heads snarled at him like a warning. Wolf heads on pikes, bloody knives, wolf skins...Tired eyes returned to the limp form of his shield sister. What if they'd given her the potion? What if she didn't wake up? What if they'd broken her spirit? An image of her spinning like a dancer her blade flashing. Arrows surging from her bow so quickly, like the sound of ice cracking. The beauty and grace of his shield sister gone forever? Farkas groaned, vomited helplessly sending bile down his naked chest. He'd failed her and the Circle.

The Silver Hand had come upon them unexpectedly, a sneak attack so quick and violent that neither he nor Aela had time to do more than drop into ready stances to fight. Men and women running, shouting triumphantly, the sounds of twang and woosh of arrows through the night air. He'd shoved Aela behind him just as something struck him in the neck. The last thing he remembered was Aela's cursing before his body had gone boneless, dropping to the ground without having made a single blow to their attackers. Before waking up chained to this wall he watched Aela fall beside him to the dry earth of Talking Stone Camp.

Figures those bastards wouldn't have the balls to fight them like true warriors. They used poisons and potions to weaken their enemy and smuggle them away to this foul place.

Footsteps, light and quick echoed from down the long corridor, and Farkas turned his head to see which of the filthy skeevers was coming for them this time.

In the dim light of the torches, all Farkas could make out was a dark-robed figure carrying some sort of staff with a glowing stone embedded in the tip. It wasn't until they stopped a few feet in front of him, that Farkas realized the robes were not black, but a deep, inky purple. The stone wasn't glowing, it pulsed—he swallowed hard—like a beating heart.

A woman stood before him, tall and slender, her blonde hair pulled up into a mass of curls atop her head. Her face was slim, blue eyes piercing as they looked upon him, her skin pale and flawless, like the inside of the seashell, he found on a beach long ago. A sweet-ish scent rose from the rounded tops of the breasts she casually displayed beneath the thick robes. Farkas watched her warily, the smell pulling at him like a promise, curling into his groin like a snake.

Slender fingers on his cheek pulled his head up. She chuckled a hard, dark sound that sent a frisson of fear down his spine. "So you're Farkas," she said, and his good eye narrowed as he met her gaze. "I've been told that you've proven to be quite the stubborn beast. Well, I'm about to change that."

She moved off towards a nearby table, her long robes sweeping almost ghostlike over the floor, barely causing a whisper of sound. She leaned her staff against the wall and pulled the strap of a leather satchel from around her neck to place it on the tabletop.

"You have something I need, Farkas, and I will get it one way or another."

The woman moved closer to Aela, reaching out with long, nimble fingers to stroke the red tresses that hung in bloody ribbons around her dirty face.

"My associates prefer violence to get what they want. I am not so barbaric. There are other, more delicate and personal means by which to acquire such knowledge."

She looked over at Farkas as she pulled a bottle from the pocket of her robe. Uncorking it, she moved to him and held it up to his lips. He tried to turn away, but the scent of it drew him in.

A health potion. Why would she want to heal him?

As if she'd read his mind, she said, "You can't tell me what I need to know if your throat is so raw that you cannot speak or your mind rattled that you cannot form a thought." She tossed a frown at the door that sent her curls into disarray and pursed her plump red lips. "Barbarians," she spat, then smiled at Farkas and carding her fingers through his hair. "Come now, Companion. Let's put an end to this unpleasantness. You'll be a good dog for me. Won't you?"

Indecision kept his head down while he considered not accepting it, but what good would he do Aela if he couldn't communicate with her? For a moment, he yearned for his brothers and sisters. His brother would know what to do. Farkas tilted his head back. He wasn't some green lad, nor was this the first time he'd faced evil. For all her finery and allure, she was just a woman. He must stay alive. When he was stronger, he would know what to do.

Farkas tilted his head back, and the woman lifted the flask higher so that the salty liquid dribbled into his mouth.

"That's it. What a good boy," she cooed into his ear and tugged on his earlobe with sharp white teeth before tossing the empty bottle into the straw. Her long-fingered hands stroked his bare chest and sharp nails left red streaks on his neck. "Good dogs get rewarded."

"Get your hands off my shield-brother, hag or you'll answer to me."

The robbed woman sniffed impatiently and tossed a spell over her shoulder that silenced Aela's challenge. Farkas cringed at his sister's scream.

"Stay strong, sister." Farkas urged straining to turn his head toward his sister until the woman slapped him across the face.

Farkas bared his teeth at her transgression then set his feet squarely on the stone and straightened his shoulders.


	2. Dancing on Our Graves 2

TITLE: Dancing on Our Graves

CHAPTER: 2

* * *

His brother is late.

Vilkas glanced anxiously down the corridor and scolded himself for worrying. No sense in it. Waste of time. It's likely Farkas is bundled up with that serving wench—never could remember her name—or caught up in a game of dice.

It wasn't uncommon to run into bandits or wolves or the odd necromancer outside the city, but for Farkas to be delayed a week past his expected return was unheard of, mainly since his destination was nearby—and he had Aela at his side. Aela could keep his brother out of trouble if anyone could.

There were many things Vilkas could say about his brother. Brains may not be Farkas's strong suit, but his twin never backed down from a fight. His brother could take care of himself, so there was no reason to worry, start praying or plan a rescue. Yet, Farkas wasn't one to waste time in returning to Jorrvaskr, so maybe there was trouble.

His eyes strayed across the silent hallway to his brother's empty room, as he made his way to the Harbinger's sitting area, and a heavy sigh escaped him as he reached for the last bottle from his stash of Black-Briar Mead. It was against his better judgment to drown his anxiety in alcohol, but for the moment, it seemed the only option.

"Your empty chair mocks me, brother," he grumbled, pushing himself off the doorframe.

Out here he could hear the chattering of other Companions from the far end of the corridor. He knew they were also concerned, but he couldn't share his fears with them. Not now. Not yet. He loved his brothers and sisters, but right now he wanted to be alone.

He considered closing himself behind the solid oak door that separated the living quarters from the rest of the rooms but couldn't draw the will to care that it was gaping open.

Vilkas shoved calloused fingers through his hair.

Tomorrow, he assured himself, tipping the last of the mead down his throat. Tomorrow would come, and then Farkas would tease him about his headache. He'd walk through the doors at dawn, boasting about his exploits and shouting for food. A warrior needs mead and a leg of mutton to survive, he'd say. Near starving, he'd yell until Tilma bustled in with a platter of meats carefully balanced in one hand and a tankard brimming with mead in the other.

Vilkas lit another candle and dropped heavily into his favorite chair. Yanking a book across his lap, his eyes fell to the pages, but the words swam unfocused in front of his eyes. Even the title escaped him for the moment, his mind preoccupied as it was.

'I was in the Rat and Pot, a foreigner corner pub in…'

His eyes dragged over the first line for the tenth time in as many minutes, until Vilkas turned his gaze to the candle flame and set himself to wait.

The volume from the action upstairs increased briefly, as the door to the living quarters opened. He wouldn't have bothered to turn his gaze except that an immediate shift in the air played with the hairs on the back of his neck and prickled his curiosity.

The long hallway between the entry and his usual seat was dim, and only the silhouette of a feminine form could be seen approaching. His nose twitched, and his sharp eyes narrowed.

Make that two females.

Lisbene Wirmarc he recognized immediately, for he knew her well from their past time traveling and fighting together. Her scent distinct, and unforgettable; like lightning-charged air in a thunderstorm. Not surprising she would smell of dangerous power. She was the Dragonborn, after all.

He briefly wondered what she was doing back in Whiterun until the stranger at her side attracted his attention. Different than Lisbene with a lighter, yet just as a natural scent. As if she reached out and touched him, his senses pulled tautly. Thick, calloused fingers white-knuckled the book and his keen nose detected purple mountain flowers and sun-warmed leather. Much to his dismay, he found it... appealing.

He frowned as they continued through the doorway, stopping just inside the sitting area.

The stranger's honey-colored hair swept gently away from her face into a loose braid that twisted around her small head like a crown. It shone in the candlelight like shades of Skyrim tundra on a sunny day in Hearthfire. A common enough style for many Nord women. But this woman was not a Nord. At least, not entirely, judging by the unmistakable presence of short, pointed ear tips that peeked through the glossy locks.

A damned elf half-breed.

"Vilkas," Lisbene started, pulling his attention away from the stranger. "How are you?"

They hadn't seen one another in months, and he hadn't missed her presence. The two had never been close, and he wasn't going to pretend otherwise. He snapped the book closed and dropped it onto the tabletop as he stared at her.

"Aye, I 'm fine," he spoke quietly into the gloom and emphasizing the last word. "What do you want?"

A sad look passed over her, but he didn't care. Not after she'd gotten Kodlak killed and took off, leaving the Companions to take on the Silver Hand on their own. She was a coward, and he didn't respect cowards.

"I need your help," she said, shifting her weight onto one foot.

Nothing about her unease concerned him. He wouldn't bother to piss on her boots if they were on fire.

"What in Oblivion made you think you'd get help from me?" Vilkas snapped, rising from the chair. Always pushing the limits this one.

It wasn't as if she were ignorant. A coward and a traitor, maybe, but she wasn't unaware of his feelings about her. Granted, he'd never tried to hide them, but she wasn't so clueless that she mistook him for an ally.

Her jaw tightened a moment before she spoke. "Because I care about Farkas as much as you, and he's in trouble. I happen to know where he is, but I need help."

Vilkas took a menacing step toward her. "If you've gotten him mixed up in something, I swear I'll cut—"

"Calm down," Lisbene moved to Kodlak's old chair and dropped into it. "I had nothing to do with it. But I can't get him out on my own. There are too many. I gathered some fighters and assumed you'd want to come."

Vilkas glanced over at the stranger. He could see it now—the way she stood with her limbs lose but ready to move, the way she watched him and still managed to be vigilant of her surroundings. She had turned her back slightly to the door behind her, to prevent someone from walking up on her unnoticed. She was no ordinary follower. Likely a mercenary.

"Start talking," he growled at Lisbene.

He didn't care that he was curt and unfriendly. She didn't deserve better, not after what she'd done. And she certainly wasn't winning any points by dragging the half-breed along. If Farkas was in trouble, Vilkas needed to get to him. Standing here playing games like children wasn't helping his sibling. The elf stepped closer, and Vilkas felt his nerves begin to fray.

"A friend of mine happened to be in the area and saw a group of men takes Farkas and Aela prisoner. As of two days ago, they're still alive, but I don't how long that will last." Lisbene pulled off one leather bracer and then the other to rub her wrists. "Rumor has it, they're waiting for someone to come to question them."

That could only mean one thing. "Silver Hand," he snarled. "They'll be wanting to know the identities and locations of every man and woman with the beast blood."

She nodded. "Precisely what I thought. And that means everyone you've helped who holds that secret... They're in danger."

Vilkas snorted. "Farkas would never give up that kind of information. If you think otherwise, you don't know my brother." Then scrubbed a hand over his face. "Aela would happily offer her life up to protect the Circle."

Lisbene's eyes slid to the other woman. Vilka noted the exchange and caught a quick glimpse of Lisbene's nervous eyes before looking back at him.

"They may not have a choice, Vilkas. There's talk of experiments. Potions. They'll make them talk whether he wants to or not."

The ache in his chest he'd ignored for the last hour blossomed. Vilkas rose up on the balls of his feet, hands searching for a weapon. "What kind of experiments?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure. My contact only said that he heard them speak of powerful enchantress with knowledge of the human body. And unfortunately for Aela and your brother, she has an intense hatred for anything... less than human."

Vilkas's stomach knotted. Aela was a good hunter and a courageous fighter when her emotions weren't invested. If she went feral. If knowing what Farkas's kidnappers were planning to do to him—or may have already done to him—she'd be so overwhelmed with anger that she'd forget herself. Could his brother be strong enough for both of them?

"We're wasting time." They were going to need professionals that could set their feelings aside. "How many have you gathered so far?" he asked, as he walked off to his room to retrieve his armor and weapons.

"I've got five, and two more I can speak to on the way there. That will make ten of us if they join."

He eyed her when he stepped back out into the hallway, buckling straps and slipping his sword into its scabbard. "If, they join? Why would mercenaries turn down money?"

"Because they're not all mercenaries, and none of them are being paid for this," Lisbene said promptly, the hiss to her words betraying her impatience. "They're doing it because they're my friends and I'm the one asking."

"And because the Silver Hand has gotten out of control," the stranger finally spoke up, and Vilkas hesitated momentarily at the sound of her voice—sure, blunt and focused with an unmistakable tinge of bitterness lurking just under the surface.

He studied her face, which gave away no hint as to the depth of her dislike of the Silver Hand, but he was confident that it damn sure didn't have to do with self-preservation, because she was absolutely not one of them; She didn't smell of the beast blood, or he would have detected it already.

But Farkas didn't have time to sit and wait for a rescue so that Vilkas could find out more. They needed to get moving, darkness waxing or not.

"As long as the people involved don't go rogue and get my brother killed, I don't care why they want to be a part of this," he said in complete honesty.

He caught sight of Tilma as she passed through the corridor toward the group sleeping quarters and asked her to prepare a small pack of food for his journey, waiting until she'd disappeared back upstairs before facing the ladies again.

"Where are they holding them?" Vilkas asked as the women followed him towards the door to the main hall.

"It's over in the Reach," Lisbene replied, "a place called Fenn's Gulch."

"Never heard of it," he admitted. "How many are we up against?"

The expression on her face told him all he needed to know, but he let her say it anyway. "Far too many to make it as easy as dispatching a few bandits. They've set up camp all around the entrance, so unless we can find another way inside, we'll have to push through them."

No one knew the actual numbers of the Silver Hand. They hid in plain sight, served drinks, farmed the land and guarded towns. Scattered across Tamriel, the Companions only knew their frequent battles hand thinned out their numbers.

They were going to need all the help they could get.

Vilkas swallowed hard and gripped the hilt of his sword as he moved past the women. "Then we'd best get moving," he threw over his shoulder as they took the stairs to the upper floor.

He accepted the pack from Tilma and threw his shoulder against the great doors of Jorrvaskr with the women behind him.

By the Nine, he hated the Silver Hand. But with the power of Hircine coursing in his veins, he would deal a blow to their numbers even if it cost him his life.

Outside, his silver eyes shifted to gather the light from the moonless sky, amplifying his vision. They would pay for hurting his twin and his shield sister. Their actions would prove costly—for they would pay the price with their blood.

Jervar waited for them at the base of the drawbridge with horses ready. Vilkas accepted the reins and swung his bulk onto his waiting mount. A sharp nod at the women got them moving. Vilkas kicked the snorting gelding onto the road. As they charged across the tundra, he imagined their blood pooling at his feet as they begged and wept.

Aye, they would pay.


End file.
